


Danger: Pavement Ends

by Kyra



Series: Warning Labels [10]
Category: The Office (US)
Genre: F/M, jinx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-19
Updated: 2007-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 14:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10664991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra/pseuds/Kyra
Summary: Part 10. Set mostly during Drug Testing and Conflict Resolution.





	Danger: Pavement Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Part 10 of Warning Labels, posted in 2007. Thanks to [](http://annakovsky.livejournal.com/profile)[annakovsky](http://annakovsky.livejournal.com/), [](http://honey-wheeler.livejournal.com/profile)[honey_wheeler](http://honey-wheeler.livejournal.com/) and [](http://obsession-inc.livejournal.com/profile)[obsession_inc](http://obsession-inc.livejournal.com/) for beta-ing.

The weather's doing the same two-steps-forward-one-step-back thing it does every spring: warm one day, freezing the next. Pam keeps forgetting to check the temperature and dressing wrong, which she also does every year.

It's strange how fast spring seemed to come this year, though. Normally she's desperate by the time April rolls around, but this one snuck up on her; she's felt strange all winter, like she was sleepwalking through it while someone else lived her life, and the feeling isn't really going away even now that the days are finally getting longer and Michael is talking about the Easter Bunny laying eggs.

It's sunny this morning. That could still mean it's freezing out, but she hums as she gets dressed and doesn't put on tights.

**

Mark comes into the kitchen as Jim's staring sleepily into his coffee, watching the milk billow outward.

"Hey!" he says. Since he switched to night shifts, their schedules aren't matching up at all; Jim doesn't think he's even seen Mark since last week.

"Hey!" he says back as Mark grabs a bowl from the cabinet next to him. "How's it hanging?"

"A little to the left," Mark says, and Jim rolls his eyes at him. Mark grins. "What's up with you?" he says. "How's work? How's your girlfriend, Pam?"

Jim's heart freezes before his brain catches up. It's an old joke, from back when he'd just started at Dunder Mifflin and kept forcing Mark to listen to his stories about it every night. "How's your imaginary friend, Dwight?" "How's your awesome boss?" "How's your girlfriend, Pam?" And then Mark stopped – kind of abruptly, now that he thinks about it.

"Uhh, fine, good," Jim says, and his voice sounds almost normal. When he turns around, Mark looks like he realizes what he's said.

"Hey, we still shooting hoops on Saturday?" he says quickly as Jim takes a sip of his coffee. It's hot all the way down his chest.

"Only if you're ready to get your ass handed to you again," he says, and Mark flips him off over his shoulder as he puts the milk back in the refrigerator.

Jim finishes his coffee standing by the sink and talking to Mark about his trip to see Sarah's parents last month, before it's late enough that he can grab his keys off the counter and go to work.

**

They've both been staying later at work lately, for reasons Jim's trying not to think hopefully about. He's been sitting on the couch by her desk tonight, listening to her read his old Onion horoscopes, while the office empties out. Roy's working late tonight on a big shipment Dwight promised the customer would be expedited, to Darryl's annoyance.

"What does yours say?" he says, nodding at Toby as he walks by.

"Um – oh, weird, it says that I am infinitely cooler than all Libras, and can kick their asses at online Scrabble," she says.

" _What?_ " he says. "That is extremely suspect." She laughs and shuts down her computer and pulls on her coat before she comes over to sit on the other end of the couch. She's still there twenty minutes later, talking about whether Mose really exists, when Michael comes out of his office, briefcase in hand. It's an improv class night, which Jim knows because Michael made Dwight go buy chips and dip for him to bring to share with his fellow improvisitor-ines, which he then left sitting out on his desk all afternoon.

"Hey," he says, pointing at them on his way out. "I want to see three feet on the floor at all times."

He cackles to himself and lets the door bang shut behind him.

Pam looks down at her lap and Jim clears his throat in the silence, hoping she won't notice that he's probably blushing.

"So, uh," he says, and then his cell phone rings. It's Brenda. He turns off the ringer and puts it back in his pocket without answering. Pam looks at him questioningly.

"It's nothing," he says. "I can call her back."

Pam gives him a funny look, and pulls her own phone out of her purse, on the couch between them, to check the time.

"Oh, hey, it's getting late," she says, standing. "I should probably—"

"Oh, yeah, me too," he says, and stands up too. "See you tomorrow." As soon as the door closes behind her, he flops back down onto the couch. The office seems lifeless and loudly silent with no one in it.

Every time she walks away lately it feels like a wasted opportunity, but he can't figure out what he'd say even if he wanted to. It's on the tip of his tongue, sometimes, though, moments like now, and whenever they're alone together and it gets quiet and strange. Last month when they woke up early in Roy's bed and kissed sleepily for ages, his fingers tangling with hers under the covers, 'til she'd pulled back and given him a strange, sad look before rolling out of bed to shower. ("Don't you need to, like, wash my back or something?" she said over her shoulder in the doorway.)

As pleasant as _that_ memory is, it's not something he needs to be thinking about at work, alone or not. He should go home. Eat dinner. It seems like a lot of effort.

**

Pam's been watching him all day. From the corner of his eye he can see her head go up every time his phone rings, or now, when Dwight asks him if he has any Wite-Out.

Jim doesn't have any Wite-Out, and normally he'd tell Dwight that, along with pointing out that Dwight goes through a bottle of Wite-Out every month, that maybe he should just reprint the letter he's writing instead of whiting out an entire sentence, and that his sheriff's uniform still looks ridiculous. Instead he gets up, walks over to the supply shelf, and brings Dwight a bottle of Wite-Out before sitting back down. Dwight gives him a suspicious look and doesn't say thank you.

Pam's still watching him. It makes his skin prickle. He swivels a little in his chair and raises his eyebrows at her. He hasn't said a word in four hours.

**

By five his voice is back to normal and he and Pam have fully hashed out every Urinalysis-related event of the day. It's been warm enough lately that Jim didn't wear a coat today, and he feels strangely light leaving the office without it.

"What are you doing now?" he says, as he holds open the door to the parking lot for her. Roy came by at lunch and dropped the truck's keys on her desk because he was going to the Zeller's sporting goods in Throop with Darryl after work, "—and you'd whine the whole time if we brought you along, babe."

"Gee, so thoughtful," Pam had said lightly, and Roy chuckled and bent down to kiss her absently.

"Well," Pam says, brushing by him. "it's a pretty big night. I have a hot date with Lean Cuisine."

"Come over," Jim says, impulsively. Apparently now that he can talk again he's just going to go crazy with it. Well, to a point. There's a long pause and he braces for her no.

"Okay," she says, and he tries not to break into too big of a grin.

**

"I hope you like haute cuisine," Jim says over his shoulder as he grabs a box of EZ-Mac from the cabinet. Pam's sitting on the couch, cardigan tossed over her purse on the floor, flipping tv channels, and Jim's more than a little thankful for Mark's new work schedule.

"It better be gourmet, or I'm leaving right now," Pam says, without taking her eyes off the screen, then looks over at him and grins. He claps a hand to his heart, like he's mortally wounded.

"Such harsh words," he says, and rips open a packet of elbow noodles.

Pam finds Zoolander and by the time they're done eating Matilda is bonding with Derek and Hansel. "I became…. bulimic," she admits.

"You can read minds?" they both say along with the tv.

"Jinx," Jim says automatically, and then laughs at her face. "Oh, you don't like that? I think it's called a taste of your own medicine, Beesly."

She frowns, then jerks a thumb toward his kitchen and pantomimes swigging from a can.

"Oh, I'm sorry, what's that?" he says. "Are you trying to ask if I have any Coke? Because the answer to that is no, sorry, this is a Coke-free zone." Pam crosses her arms and glares.

"Yeah," he says, "now you get to know how it feels." The thought makes his chest tight, the idea of her feeling as recklessly ready to play along with him as he'd been all day. If only.

The movie goes to commercial and Jim changes channels until he gets to the home shopping one.

"Hey, I heard this was your favorite channel," he says. Pam makes a face like she's being horribly tortured and shakes her head hard. "Yep, I think we should watch this for a while," he says, and she lunges across him for the remote, the side of her breast brushing his chest. He jerks it away just in time and she grabs again, so he catches her hands in his free one.

"Geez, remote hogging, so rude," he says, and slides his hand down to her wrists, setting them back on her own lap without looking away from the tv.

When he turns his head she's looking up at him strangely, and she blinks and looks away fast.

"What?" he says, and she shakes her head. "I'm sorry, what was that?" he leans in like he didn't hear. He meant it to sound light, but it occurs to him he's still holding her wrists and when Pam looks back their faces are closer than he realized. He can feel his pulse start to speed up and with his right hand he turns off the tv and drops the remote on the couch cushion beside him.

In the sudden silence he can hear Pam's breathing pick up, but she licks her lips and doesn't say anything. Jim can feel his heart pounding, feels wild and in-control, which is so not how he usually feels around her that he's not sure what to do with it.

He moves in so slowly that she has plenty of time to break the game and say something, or at least pull away, but she doesn't, just lets her eyes flick up to his once, and then looks down at his lips like she's frozen, like this is part of the jinx. He can see her eyelashes against her cheeks, and he brings a hand to her chin, tilting her face up so he can bring his mouth down on hers.

Pam kisses him hard, mouth opening hot under his – not the kind of kiss he was expecting, but he goes with it, letting go of her wrists to bring his hands up to her face. She pushes up toward him until he pulls away, and they look at each other, breathing hard. He waits again for her to say something, but she doesn't, so he slides his hands down to her arms and leans in and kisses her neck, bites at the spot just under her ear.

Pam whimpers, arching toward him, and then freezes. Jim pulls back and mock-frowns at her.

"Pam," he says sternly. "Do I have to get the jinx police in here to enforce the rules?"

Pam shakes her head quickly, pressing her lips together.

"That's what I thought," he says, and goes back to her neck. He can hear her breathing turn harsh and ragged, but she doesn't make any more noise and he's so turned on his head feels light and swimmy.

"You know," he says conversationally, as he starts to unbutton her shirt, "I can't believe you don't like the home shopping network. Consumerism is the backbone of America, Beesly." He knows he's babbling, and he can't tell who he's trying to distract, himself or her.

Her bra is white and lacy and she meets his eyes as he pushes it up over her breasts, slides his hands down over them, which makes her inhale sharply and push against him. Jim's mouth is drier than he thinks it's ever been.

Things start going fast and fuzzy; Pam's twisting under him on the couch while he kisses her until he's dizzy. She keeps sliding his hands down to her waist, her hips, more intently each time, and he has to bite his lip to keep from grinning. She finally realizes what he's doing and glares up at him.

"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you want," he says, and she makes a frustrated face and grabs his wrist, pulls his hand between her legs. She's _hot_ and her face is flushed and Jim slides off the couch to kneel in front of her.

"I've wanted to do this all day," he says, and pulls down her underwear. He knows he's pushing it, like he wants to see what he has to say to make her stop this, stand up and leave, and he can't even tell if he's hoping she will or she won't. Instead she lifts her hips to help him and when he looks up, her eyes are wide and dark.

Before she can think better of this, he slides his hands under her ass, pushing her skirt up as he goes, and pulls her to the edge of the couch. She spreads her legs, and he has to press a hand against his dick, he's so hard. Jim bends his head, bites the inside of her thigh, moves his mouth higher.

Pam fists her hands in his hair and pushes against him and when he finally pulls back and looks up at her she's flushed and sweaty from the effort of not making any noise. Her shirt is open and she's biting her lip and it's too much, he can't take it anymore.

"Ohmigod, talk," he gasps out. "Say something. Unjinx."

" _Fuck_ ," Pam says, in a voice he's never heard from her. "Don't stop." He brings a hand down from her hip, pushes two fingers inside her, and sound comes out of her in a rush.

"Why the hell are you still dressed?" she manages, and he chokes out a laugh and fumbles for his wallet, one of the condoms he's been keeping in there all year like a horny, hopeful teenager.

It's not there, and he realizes he forgot to put one back in after the last time they—

"Hold on," he says. "Stay there, don't move." Pam gives him a confused look and he kisses her hard as he stands up, keeps kissing her, then dashes for the stairs. He makes it to his bedroom in record time, his hands shaking as he pulls open the top drawer of his dresser and grabs a condom. His heart is thudding in his chest and Pam's downstairs, naked, in his house, right now, waiting for him. In the mirror, as he turns away, his own face is flushed, his eyes wide.

He takes the stairs three at a time going down. Pam's turned sideways on the couch, curled on her side, and he's petrified she'll have come to her senses, but instead she gives him a slow, languid smile.

"Hi," she says in a voice that makes his cock jump.

"Hey," he says, coming over from the stairs to stand over her. "What's up?"

"Oh, not much," Pam says, and tugs at his pants. He sits down on the other end of the couch and she turns on her back, the bottom of her foot pressing against his thigh.

"Yeah, me neither," he says, but his voice comes out a little shaky, and she laughs. He has to use both hands to get his pants off, the condom on, trying to touch himself as little as possible, and when he glances back up Pam's touching herself.

"Jesus, Pam," he says, and she gives him a pleased, wicked look.

"Come here," she says, and he moves over her, hooking her knee over his shoulder as she tugs him down by his shirt to kiss him. "Hurry," she says against his mouth, reaching down, so he does.

**

Afterward he ends up behind Pam on the couch, curled around her. The shadows are getting long, and the skin of her stomach is very soft under his fingers.

"Where do you think Dwight got that uniform?" Pam asks sleepily, and he pulls her a little closer.

"Hard to say," he says against the back of her head. "Costume supply shop. His private tailor." Pam laughs and after awhile her breathing evens out. He should wake her up, or at least get up himself, so he doesn't fall asleep too, but he just wants to take one more minute.

**

Jim jolts awake because there's an alarm going off. No, a phone. A phone is ringing. It's pitch dark and it takes him a second to realize he's on his couch, pants off, and Pam is struggling to sit up in front of him.

"Shit," she says and grabs for her purse. The phone keeps ringing and Jim sits up too, her panic rubbing off on him. "Shit shit shit," Pam says again and upends her purse. "What time is it?"

"Um," Jim says, and then she finds the phone and flips it open.

"Hey," she says, her voice switched so completely into everyday, awake Pam that it wakes Jim all the way up. "Yeah, sorry," she says, turning her body a little away from Jim. Her shirt is still unbuttoned and she pulls the front closed with one hand. "I'm at Target." Jim runs a hand through his hair, feeling like he's falling back away from her, into his everyday self. "Yeah, I'll be home soon," she says. His eyes have adjusted to the dim light coming through the window and he can see her skirt bunched around her thighs, her underwear on the floor by his foot. "Yeah, sure," she says. "Love you."

When she flips the phone closed, the room echoes with the sudden quiet. The VCR is glaring the time in green: 9:26.

"Oh, God," Pam says, and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, briefly, before grabbing up her underwear and turning away from him. Jim takes the hint and finds his boxers, pulling them on. Pam's buttoning up her shirt when he looks back, and he doesn't know what to say. He reaches over and turns on a lamp and they both squint as the room floods with light.

"Do you know where my other shoe is?" Pam says, and he looks around until he sees it on the other side of the coffee table. When he hands it to her, her thumb brushes his, and then she's on her knees scooping everything back into her purse. He sits on the couch, elbows on his knees and watches.

"You remember how to get home from here?" he asks, for lack of anything better to say, feeling guilty in ways that don't make sense.

"Oh, yeah, thanks," Pam says, and stands up, looking around her like she thinks she's forgetting something as she settles her purse on her shoulder.

"Cool," he says, and she leans down to kiss him quickly, her hand on his shoulder. It's an absent-minded kiss, a see-you-later-sweetheart kiss, something she's never done before.

Jim's heart stops, jumps, picks up again.

Pam falters when she straightens up like she realizes what she's done. She looks suddenly shy and Jim feels more awkward now than he did three hours ago when they were doing unspeakable things in his living room.

"See you tomorrow?" he says, to cover it over, and she half-smiles and nods.

"I really have to—" she says, shifting toward the door.

"Oh, yeah, totally," he says, and stands to walk her out, feeling ridiculous in his boxers and shirttails. He stands in the doorway watching: Pam's bent head and shoulders hurrying away. He waits until she's in her car backing out of the driveway, and then he shuts the door firmly, turns the lock.

**

Pam's feet are cold, and the moonlight is ridiculously bright, lying in harsh patches on the wall. She hasn't been sleeping well lately.

It's three a.m. and beside her Roy's asleep, his heavy breathing just this side of a snore. Pam's been having these flashes lately: daydreams, almost. What her life would be like if he weren't always there, hogging the covers, drinking from the orange juice carton, trying to tickle her out of her bad moods. Things that don't even seem real.

It's a huge thought, the kind that makes her feel sick and panicky. Pam kicks back the covers and pads her way into the kitchen for a glass of water. She drinks it looking at her own reflection in the dark window, listening to the silent apartment. The clock ticking makes her feel lonely deep in her bones. She wishes Roy would wake up, notice that she's gone. If he came all sleepily into the kitchen, if he held out a warm hand and said, come back to bed, even if he called her Pammy—.

He doesn't, of course. Pam stands still, watching the faucet drip slowly, steadily.

**

"Psst!" says Pam, and Jim looks away from his computer screen. Dwight's just gone to the bathroom and Pam is making pointed gestures that are in no way as surreptitious as she must think. It takes him a second, and then he realizes Dwight's left his cell phone by his keyboard, instead of locked in a drawer like normal. Jim turns back to Pam, eyes wide, then stands up, palming the phone as he does.

"Hey, did you want to see that thing in my car?" he says to her as he passes her desk and her eyes widen back.

"Oh, yeah, definitely, the thing in your car," she says, and follows him out.

They lean against his trunk in the parking lot and change all Dwight's ringtones to *NSync songs. Pam laughs as she makes suggestions and her arm brushes against his. It's three o'clock, the light just starting to thin, and he can't stop looking at her, how she smiles at him like she means it.

**

Dwight's phone goes off spectacularly loudly with "Bye Bye Bye" just as he's walking out the door that night, and Pam has to put both hands over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud as he whirls around and paws at his coat pocket.

"JIM," he bellows, then flips open his phone. "Dwight Schrute," he says in his normal voice, pauses, then sweeps out of the office. Pam notes that Angela left five minutes ago.

Jim's been standing all the way across the office by the kitchen door, and when she catches his eye he smiles at her, wide and delighted, the kind of smile that made her want to kiss him in the first place, that started this whole mess. The worst thing she's ever, ever done. And even still – it hurts, knowing she'll never feel like this again. Can't feel like this all the time. If only Jim—

And if wishes were horses, she tells herself, and gives Jim a thumbs up across the office.

**

Every day at work is like a thousand little paper cuts of annoyance – Michael will tell Pam he thinks she should wear Hooters tank tops to work so that's what visitors see when they walk in, or Angela and Oscar spend the whole day squabbling loudly on the other side of the divider, or Stanley gives her 50 pages to fax at 4:57, or when Pam stands up from replacing the copier paper Creed is staring at her ass, or Kelly says loudly that she thinks beige is the ugliest color anyone could wear when Pam's wearing her beige sweater, or Dwight refuses to let her microwave her lunch because no one is adhering to his microwave-cleaning schedule, or Ryan closes her record-breaking game of Snood when he covers the phones for her, and on and on and on.

It's normal, inevitable, like her hair frizzing or the jokes Michael will make when she's Pam Anderson, and that's why Jim is usually what's standing between her and suicide by stapler. He's the one person she can count on to make her laugh her way out of her bad mood, and she can't figure out what's happening now to mess that up.

She's so mad at Angela she could spit. What is this, fourth grade, where people go tattle to the teacher? It's not like she ever has any actual work to do, but she's just supposed to sit around and die of boredom when she has all this wedding crap to deal with? Stuff she doesn't even want to do in the first place?

And Jim won't meet her eyes. Like she's done something wrong, like he's mad at her and she doesn't even know why. Like maybe this is the day he makes it clear this thing is over, he can't waste his time on her anymore. The day is not good.

**

He's felt sick ever since he realized what was in the file Michael was holding. But there were hundreds of complaints in there, right? He's only ever made the one, so what are the odds?

The odds are bad. Jim feels himself going still and panicky as Michael reads out an abridged version of his complaint. He doesn't dare turn around to look at Pam, but his mouth is dry and Michael keeps steamrolling on, and Jim finds himself messing with Dwight for no reason at all, knee-jerk nervous reaction. Yeah, they should definitely all talk about his fraught relationship with Dwight, and then they can move right on to his fraught relationship with Pam. He's not sure which would be worse.

Michael finally gives up on reading out the complaints, but Pam's not at her desk when Jim risks a glance over. She comes in from the hall five minutes later, followed by the camera guy. Jim looks down at his desk and wonders what she was saying to them.

**

"I am finished," Stanley announces after the eighth time Michael angrily digs into his wallet to pay the photographer.

"Stanley, no, come on—" Michael says, but it's too late, everyone else is dispersing and Pam gladly takes the chance to duck away from Jim and back to her desk. She didn't really think her day could get worse, but standing there, feeling the heat from Jim's body, trying not to cry sure did it. The idea of him talking to Toby about her, saying who knows what kind of horrible things—and from the one person who was supposed to be outside all this. She can't even begin to fathom why he would do that.

It's after five and the office clears out fast. Pam keeps her head down and shuffles papers around her desk without sitting down. From the corner of her eye she can see Angela's angry back stalking out, and the worried, curious looks Phyllis throws over her shoulder at Pam her whole way to the door. Pam looks back down at the desk and doesn't look up again, even when Jim pauses in front of it, shifting from foot to foot. She can just see his hand holding the strap of his messenger bag across his chest, and hears him inhale, but she doesn't look up and after a moment he turns away.

Pam watches his back all the way to the door, when he stops and turns.

"Look, Pam—" he starts, and for a moment he looks as miserable as she feels, looking at her across all the space between them, and something in her heart twists. Something starts to make sense.

"Hey, babe," Roy says, in the open door behind Jim and Pam inhales, blinks away her tears, sees something in Jim's face slam shut in between blinks.

"Hi," she says, and Jim turns away, brushes by Roy.

"I've been waiting in the truck for like ten minutes," he says. "Are you ready to go?" Pam takes a deep breath, nods, reaches for her coat.

**

He drives home feeling dizzy, like something in his head has shifted, prickling down his neck. Dwight glaring at him, the angry curve of Pam's back. The documentary guy running down a list, prank after prank. Jim Halpert, this is your life. Nothing's ever going to change; he can see that now. Not Pam, not Dwight, definitely not him. Not the ticking time bomb of June, not the way he keeps setting himself up for hurt. He doesn't want to be himself anymore. He wants this to stop. He wants to stop.

Jan answers her office phone on the second ring, even though it's after 7 by the time he calls, sitting on his bed looking at the wall.

"Oh, uh, hi," he says. "It's Jim. I thought I'd get your voicemail." There's a brief pause and he resists the urge to add 'from Scranton'.

"Oh, Jim," Jan says, her voice tight and tired. "I'm just working late. Is this about Michael?" Jim twists the fabric of his bedspread between his fingers.

"No, actually, it's about that sales manager opening, uh, in Stamford?" he says.

After he hangs up he looks at his phone for a long minute, then dials Pam's work extension before he can change his mind. Her voice on the recording sounds flat and distant, and he makes up a fake doctor's appointment. Lying's become the thing he's just about best at.

**

Roy's out for the night, after swearing that he'll totally look at the wedding band videos tomorrow, really, Pammy, and oh, hey, don't wait up. He'd flashed her the grin that said 'you know you love me,' the grin he thinks can get him out of anything. A grin that makes it hard to imagine anything ever hurting him.

She calls from the backyard anyway, hoodie wrapped around her, pacing in the winterdead grass. The windows of the neighbor's house cast yellow squares of light in their own yard, and she dials Jim's number from memory.

He'd come into work late yesterday without looking at her, and today everything was still weird, and she hates it. She hates it even more than she wants to stay upset with him for selling her out. She doesn't want to go to bed angry anymore.

And… Maybe it's not that he was mad at her. Maybe it's something else. Maybe that means something.

The phone rings twice before Jim answers and Pam shoves her free hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt, twisting her ring on her finger.

"Hi," she says.


End file.
